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I've been around here for a long time. You could say I'm the guy who seen it all go down, the guy who watched it all happen. As I sit here in my small apartment writing this, I'm wearing the old, dusty suit that I retired so many years ago. The suit of Redd Copperson, a butler serving at the Hollyharson Manor. Hollyharson Manor was a pretty place. Cliche, almost, in the way that it hugged up to a coastal cliff of solid granite. When you were out in the back yard, you could hear the waves crashing against the wall of rock combined with a number of squalling seagulls, giving a nice sound that can only be described as the sound of silence - without the silence. The manor catered to a wonderful garden as well. The well cared-for area held a variety of flowers including rose sprays, morning glories, irises, and a certain peach colored flower that I could never really tell the name of. In the center was a cherry tree, growing tall and proud amongst the other lucious plants that sat about the garden. Even the grass was perfect. It grew tall and straight, bearing a perfect dark green color that allowed for the sun to shine off the early morning dew. But perhaps the best part was inside the massive brick house itself - specifically, the fourth floor, third bedroom on the lefthand side facing the back of the manor. In it was a window that looked out over the back yard. Looking out the window was probably the most exaggeratingly beautiful view I have ever seen in my life. But perhaps the beauty of the manor and its grounds makes it no suprise that the series of events I'm about to relay to you are terrible. Perhaps that makes it no surprise that the horrible events I'm about to relay to you happened to the family that had moved into Hollyharson - nature has a way of balancing things out. Where there's good, there has to be evil. Where there's ripe, there has to be rotten. I remember the day the Delacroys first moved in. It was bright and sunny, as it usually was during the mid-summer of 1978. They drove into the mouth of the long driveway in their small compact car, pulling themselves around to the front of the manor. Everyone could tell they were richer than a stock market fat cat who had just won the lottery - why they drove in via small compact car was beyond me, and is still beyond me to this day. Perhaps they were trying to make themselves look normal. Perhaps they sought to distance themselves from the stereotypes of the common rich family; those who spoiled themselves rotten and deprived everyone else. It's even possible they were a normal family who just happened to hit abnormally lucky point. The first person to step out of the car was James Delacroy, right out of the driver's seat. He was handsome young fellow, probably in his early thirties; the prime of his life. He had a nice moustache and black, medium length hair, slicked back over his ears. The man was wearing a pinstriped business suit with a fancy black tie and strikingly blue dress shirt. But the thing I remember most about him was his blindingly bright red shoes. A pair of shoes that you could tell from a mile away he was proud of. Second person to come out was his wife, Mary. She was wearing this bright purple dress and enough make-up to cover five Mount Everests. Her black heels could probably be heard clicking on the concrete from a mile away. Her hair was probably best described as a mountain of hair spray with some blonde under it. She looked like she was trying to make some kind of unneeded impression. Then came the twin girls, Layla and Kayla. Unlike their mother, they hadn't taken the time to dig through a massive fashion kit. They were probably too busy playing dress up on their dolls - they couldn't have been more than five years old. They had their nice little Sunday dresses and shoes, and glaringly red hair that looked like a pile of ants had sat on their heads. And last but not least, came their teenage son Brandon. He was your stereotypical 1978 loner kid with slicked over black hair and punk rock style that put him apart from his family in almost every way. I was surprised his pants even allowed him to walk; they looked so tight that they'd probably shred your legs to bits on the first step. James walked up to me and shook my hand. "James Delacroy, nice to meet you," he said with a smile on his face. "The name's Redd Copperson, head butler," I responded, the same smile on my own face. "So, this is the house right? Hollyharson Manor. Pretty fuckin' big if you ask me." "That it is. Though I'd like to think the manor doesn't pride itself on its size. Got a lot beauty on it too."